


Gradually

by TheMinimalPen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A lot of cursing, F/M, Unhealthy Relationship?, dramione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:47:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29050152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMinimalPen/pseuds/TheMinimalPen
Summary: "That's the first time I saw him again. The last is right now. But I am too weak and drunk to even attempt to shove the covers off his bed, stand and go away. Weak emotionally I mean, because I know that I should be running away from this thing." Rough Dramione short story.
Relationships: Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 6
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

Gradually

I have never agreed to any of this. It happened gradually. I reckon very clearly how it started though. How I put myself in this mess, how I ended here I can't really explain. But I know exactly when it started.  
I was just out of work. Ron and I had split up again. Why I chose that bar to drown in self-pity when I could have done so as well at home I don't know. Maybe because of the many picture frames in my place.  
That had been Molly's idea and frankly, if she could for once in her life mind her own business, I'd feel a tad better.  
So, I went down to Diagon Alley, passed all the closed windows and ended up in Knockturn Alley. This bar is hidden from view, not really a crab place per se but bad enough that none of my regular acquaintances would ever set foot there. Yes, I say acquaintances since apparently, my workaholic personality rebukes people and according to Ron I no longer have any friends. He is supposedly, except for Harry, the only one left to pity me enough to stay around.  
Like I give a bloody damn what he thinks of me.  
So, I entered the bar, sat on a greasy stool at the counter and signed for a very disgruntled bartender to come take my order. I noticed the wizard's black eye but didn't even bother to feel worried. The place was crowded with oddly quiet patrons, who seemed to mind their own business.  
No one had granted me a look when I came in and frankly, I felt grateful for the lack of attention.  
Any other establishment and I would have at least been recognised by some annoying nosey idiot. Or have met an acquaintance who would certainly have pitied me so much I would have felt obligated to grab a drink with them.  
There, no one spared me a glance and when the bartender had left a full bottle of liquor on the counter next to a very questionable-looking glass, I was left alone with my gloomy thoughts.  
Up until the whispers tuned a little higher. I didn't expect the slash of pain that seized the back of my neck only mere seconds after hearing the voices get louder, and gasped, grasping my neck under my curls and rubbing at it.  
When I turned around I realised I was really drunk. What I saw didn't surprise me.  
Blaise Zabini had his wavering wand drawn, aiming at me. He didn't scare me though, I could outdo him in a matter of seconds, drunk or not. I only looked at him blankly.  
He drunkenly mumbled something close to filthy mudblood and I only shrugged. Like I cared for his meaningless words.  
He drew his wand again and prepared to shoot another stinging hex, to my face this time. The coward had apparently found a minuscule pinch of courage.  
I shrugged again, daring him to try.  
Draco Malfoy, who I only noticed then, took a step to the drunk tall man and hissed between clenched teeth:  
"I told you to stop that Blaise."  
That for sure I hadn't expected. Perhaps he worried I'd have him in trouble if he participated. I would definitely have.  
Well, it is what I thought until Zabini burst out in drunken laughter, calling him a muggle lover, and aiming at me once again.  
Malfoy punched the shit out of him. Zabini fell to the floor, and I realised what had just happened only when Malfoy froze on the spot, leaving Zabini to recover from his own surprise, on his arse, his lip bloodied and already swollen:  
"What the fuck mate?"  
"I told you to stop that." Malfoy spat and then turned to me. He seemed to realise suddenly what he'd just done and his upper lip curled in a vicious drawl, hate emanating from him in waves, glaring at me with such a force I shuddered. He strode away without a backward glance at anyone.  
I turned around too and grabbed the bottle of liquor from which I drank straight.  
That's how it started. That's the first time I saw him again.  
The last is right now.  
But I am too weak and drunk to even attempt to shove the covers off his bed, stand and go away. Weak emotionally I mean, because I know that I should be running away from this thing. That thing that doesn't have a name. It has nothing to do with a relationship. It's a hateful kind of casual sex thing. Although casual is an understatement.  
The shagging is more than regular.  
He comes over whenever he wants, insults me, sometimes manhandles me, and we fuck.  
I come over whenever I want, insult him, sometimes provoke him, and we fuck.  
But his door is always open. Day and night. Mine is too. Which I guess is the only reason why this keeps happening.  
It's the most shameful thing I, we, have ever done.  
But it's the least unpleasant thing I've got around. I know that it's the case for him too.  
We are rather lonely people. Neither liked, neither present enough to keep friends around.  
War takes a lot from you and I guess it took a lot from him too. I was also left empty, lacking something. Purpose for sure, but determination also. My life was left flat, uneventful. Painless.  
I actually lacked the pain at this point in my life. And this, with him, it's painful.  
It wasn't supposed to be anything, it isn't really anything. It happened once, one drunken night out after the punch night, and he left after I called him a fucking bastard, himself calling me a whore, banging the door after him.  
The next time was harsh, passionate, near-violent. We crossed path in a Ministry event and he taunted Harry as always. Then I saw him on my way to the bathroom and insulted him again. He retaliated by pinning me to a wall, hissing a list of atrocious names to define me. It had only fuelled my anger. Fed it.  
He apparated me to his flat and … that fuck. I knocked off one of his bedside lamps, he tore apart my dress, I dug my nails in his back, leaving marks, no, scars.  
And then it happened, again, and again, each time differently, each time closer to the previous.  
Until he'd just come over at least once a week, which I found myself doing too shortly after he'd started.  
Now, his face is buried in his pillow and his left arm laying loosely over my breasts. The cover doesn't hide him entirely and man that bum.  
I don't know what he sees in me, physically I mean, especially the breasts he insists upon every single time. They're very small but then maybe it's his thing.  
The only complain he's ever had concerns my hair, which I answered by slapping him across the face. Which of course led to a very unhealthy but grandiose fuck.  
I call it fuck because that's exactly what it is. There are no feelings, nearly no kissing, except if bruising, and sincerely, all I, we, care about when it happens is our very own selfish pleasure.  
I usually go away before his alarm clock rings or exactly when it does, which he does too.  
But today is Saturday night, he came around before I had the time to decide whether to go out to get pissed or not.  
The shouting resulting from that argument woke the neighbour, so he apparated me to his flat without asking my opinion on the matter.  
We kept arguing and …now I'm in his bed, supposed to sleep off the soreness.  
But I can't.  
I'm usually too drained physically and emotionally, or too drunk after, that I always fall asleep soundly before he does. Tonight though, he fell asleep first, and he snores. Well, lightly. Alright, he breathes loudly!  
It's annoying anyway and it keeps me up.  
I turn slightly on my side, his hand drifting away from my naked torso. Having my back to him doesn't help. The room is spinning anyway. Maybe I should shake him.  
Nah. I take the pillow and put it atop my head.  
"Would you fucking stop fidgeting? I'm trying to sleep."  
Good. Now I have to go. I stand, difficultly. Snatch my dress from the floor, glare at him in the dark and open his bedroom door to go.  
"Seriously?" He barks.  
"I can't sleep and as always I'm bothering your highness so I'm going home." I hiss.  
"Right, fuck off then."  
I bang the door to his bedroom close, not without hearing the 'bitch!' he shrieks at me. I hear a loud thud then but ignore it as I fumble around his fireplace for the floo powder. The door I just banged closed bangs open.  
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" He barks.  
"I'm too drunk to apparate."  
"I'm out of floo." He drawls.  
"I'll walk then." I spit and turn around to the front door. Damn this long corridor! Why can't he just be poor and have a decent flat? Why does it have to be so humongous! I have to slap my hand against the wall several times until I reach the door.  
At his mocking chuckle, I realise I'm still naked. The dress is in my hand and I growl.  
"Fuck." I unfold the intricate piece of clothing, berating myself inwardly and apparently aloud for choosing such a complicated dress. Like I need that atop the liquor. He laughs this time.  
"Shut up!" I bark. "God damn it!" The dress is torn apart. On the front.  
"What is it, Granger? Weren't you just going? I'd like to lock the door once you're gone. Hurry out I'm tired." He sneers, laughter in his eyes.  
"Fuck you. Where's my wand anyway?"  
"I think you forgot it in the bedroom." He smirks. I want to slap him just then. Slap that idiotic condescending mocking smirk off his beautiful face. "You can go take it if you'd like." He smirks the more, positioning himself in the middle of the corridor, blocking my way. I try to walk steadily to him and when I reach him, give him a hard shove that does nothing but make him laugh.  
"You're pathetic." He hisses.  
"And you're fucking the pathetic. What does that make you?"  
"Compassionate."  
"Fuck you, let me pass."  
"As you wish." He sharply withdraws and I realise I was keeping myself steady by gripping his shirt. I stumble and he laughs but grabs my forearm to keep me standing.  
"Come back to bed you wench. You'll go when you can stand." I find nothing to say to that, and he doesn't let go of me. I walk back to the bedroom with him.  
He releases me only when I sit at the edge of the bed. He climbs back in and as I don't move, angrily sulking against my own stupidity - who drinks that much anyway? - he grabs me by the shoulder and forces me back on the bed.  
I feel his hands pat around my legs, and then the cover is back on me.  
"Sleep."  
"I fucking can't." I spit. He sighs then:  
"Come here."  
"What?"  
"Come the fuck here!" I turn to him in the dark and he sighs once more, gripping my forearm and pulling to make me turn entirely to him. Then, he does something he's never done before. He pulls me against him and wraps his arms around me. I am too shocked to move.  
"Sleep." He drawls but I can hear he's not angry.  
I fall asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

I wake up to the usual stiffness, and soreness somewhere I'd rather not be sore with such a headache.  
He's awake, staring at the ceiling, his eyebrows furrowed in a thoughtful expression, his face wholly guarded. I know he feels me moving, he just ignores me. I sigh, sit and catch sight of my wand. I silently summon it and fix my dress. Next, as he still hasn't moved, neither shown any sign that I exist, I stand and put it on.  
That's when I notice a hole in the wall facing me. At his left. A punch hole if I'm not wrong. Is that the thud I heard?  
"You punched the wall?" I ask. Now he gives a sign that he's not dead open-eyes, but he doesn't move when he answers:  
"I do as I fucking please in my own house."  
"Still lunatic, I see." I quickly sneer. He doesn't answer and I apparate away.

He doesn't come for the next two days. I don't want to go there either. I am now used to the humiliation and little shame that always comes afterwards, especially when either or both of us are drunk. He's been in worse states than I was yesterday. But I don't want to come back there first this time.  
So, I go back to work, I work, work back home too, sleep, work, work home, sleep. He doesn't entirely slip my mind. He never does. But then he's there, inside, by the front door when I come back from work.  
He doesn't say anything, I'm still in work robes, and since he doesn't look like he's going to insult me, I put my bag down on the floor, kick my shoes off, and go to the living.  
I hear him growl before he joins me, strides past me and goes to get something in the kitchen.  
I sit in my armchair and summon work. I start to read and he comes back, sits on the couch, spreads his legs in front of him, props his feet on the coffee table, and sips at the tea he's made himself.  
He silently waits for me to finish reading before he sighs.  
"What?" I ask.  
"I came too early." He simply states. I frown at him and he shrugs but doesn't comment any further. Which is odd.  
"You can always go back home," I say. Now he smirks, as he always does. He's back to himself.  
"I'd rather not. I came to get laid and I don't intend to go until it's done."  
"Then you're going to have to wait a tad longer. I hope your patience level is high because this could take a while." I taunt.  
"We'll see about that." He counters, and stands, walks to where I sit and lowers both his hands to the armrests.  
"You're not scaring me." I give.  
"I shall try harder then." He bends over, his breath an inch from my face. "Stop working."  
"No."  
He smirks, takes it as the challenge it really is and bends even closer. His mouth is brushing mine, taunting me to do something to close the almost inexistent space between our lips. I don't.  
"Yes." He purrs. And then kisses me.  
It's not harsh, it doesn't hurt and I freeze. He breaks it, and laughs softly, his face still inches from mine.  
"Stop working." He says and I feel one of his hands take the paper from mine. Then it lifts to my robes and unclasps it. He pushes it off my shoulders and then draws his hand to my face.  
"Stop working." He repeats, his breathing heavy. Mine's worse. His taunts are working and when he closes the space between us once again, I can't push him away. The kiss is hard, as it always is this time, and it feels familiar.  
I draw a hand to his shirt and tear off a button. He chuckles and breaks the kiss:  
"Finally." He says, standing up, pulling me up with him as my robes fall to the floor. I glare and he seems to relish in it.  
Before I know it we're in bed, and the frame is hitting the wall behind me.  
I fall asleep before he does.

When I wake up he's putting his pants back on, looking at me. He turns away quickly but not before I see something glint in his eyes.  
"What?" I ask. He turns back around, stares at me, but seems to decide he doesn't want to tell me. He walks to the door, I turn my back to him.  
"Come tomorrow." I hear him whisper but when I turn around the door closes and I hear him disapparating.  
It's the first time he asks, or more tells me to come. He's never asked before. I never have either.  
He's been odd if I really think about it. We didn't argue last night. It's the first time I can reckon this to happen.  
He's taken me back to bed this weekend too and punched the wall.  
What's going on with him?  
I shrug it off and go take a shower. But the nagging feeling that something's wrong comes back and taunts me all day. He's asked me to come tomorrow, and I will. And I think I will ask.  
I won't go tonight though but even once I'm eventually off work, the feeling still hasn't left me.  
I have an owl from Harry, he asks if I can come to see a Quidditch game with him next weekend. I'll answer later.  
I fall asleep in my armchair, close to the fire, work in hands.

When I wake up, the feeling is still there and I don't understand why it's bothering me so much. I decide not to try to interpret it and work my mind off. I almost forget to go to his place.  
When I arrive it's late, later than when he came by, the same time I usually come though.  
He's not in the hall, I look for him and find him in his study, working. He hears me, I know, but doesn't say a thing and keeps reading from a long scroll.  
I don't know if he's doing it on purpose to get back at me for the other day, but just in case, I don't say a thing and sit in a chair in the corner of the room.  
There are books at my right, and I start reading the titles.  
"Came to work?" He eventually says, his gaze on me, his scroll put away without me noticing.  
"Came to get laid." I easily answer. He smirks then, but again, I notice that something is wrong. I don't know what though, and he doesn't give me enough time to ask. He stands straight on his polished shoes, walks to me and takes my hand.  
I end up in the bedroom, lifted in his arms, my legs knotting around his hips as I pull at his shirt.  
I don't ask.  
We fuck.  
But then he lay stiff at my side, and when I turn away he makes a noise. I am too surprised to move and let him wrap an arm around my waist.  
He, again, falls asleep before I do, his hand loosening around me, his breathing slowing.  
It takes me hours to fall asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

I don't sleep for more than three hours, and wake up before he does, as always. His arm is still around me, as often.  
It's not like it's an affectionate gesture that needs thinking through though, it's more something he does in his sleep and until then I just pretended he didn't and scooted away once I was up.  
Except that last night, he's done it on purpose.  
It kept me awake.  
I should just go now.  
It's doesn't matter anyway, we spend our time insulting and mistreating each other. Although he never really mistreated me, not any more than I did him anyway. And we are both consenting adults, whatever sick game we're playing. If he needs this to be comfortable, I should just be able to ignore it.  
I can't. He's wrapped his arm around me, consciously.  
For the second time.  
I always fall asleep before he does.  
Has he been doing it all along?  
I shake my head and the stupid thoughts away, I have to go to work anyway. I shuffle slowly in the bed until I'm at the edge, and his arm has drifted off me.  
He wakes up. I don't turn to him until I'm dressed.  
He's looking at me, still half-asleep, his frown disconcerting. I don't understand what I see on his face but he notices my puzzlement and his features become guarded, as they are most of the time.  
"What's wrong with you?" There, I finally asked. He seems taken aback by the question but not angry.  
"Nothing." He eventually says and keeps watching me intently. I give him a questioning gaze but I don't ask again. He ignores it. After a few seconds, I sigh, pick up my wand from the night-stand and walk to the door.  
"I won't be in England for a week. Starting tonight." He says just as I'm about to close the door after me. It seems as though he's debated with himself a long time before telling me. I turn around to look at him. Is that what has been bothering him? Wait, had he planned on not telling me? So I'd end up waiting here alone like a pathetic whore? His face is blank, but his stare hard. Guarded. He _has_.  
"Whatever," I say. Then, I see it flash in his eyes. Something I would have called hurt on anyone else but it can't be. It's gone anyway. Now it's back to something I know. Anger. I turn to go. It's too early to argue.  
"I might not come back." He blurts curtly at my back. I turn back to him. He's just said a week and now he's moving? Why would he be moving?  
"Business?" I ask.  
"Yes, if I sign I'll be taking the company to Austria." He's moving then. Tonight possibly. And he's almost not told me. The bastard. What am I supposed to say to that? I'll miss you, you fucking wanker? I can't say anything anyway, the words won't come out of my mouth. I am frozen under the doorpost.  
He watches me a moment, expecting something. An answer probably, but I can't speak.  
He shuts his eyes then and takes a deep breath.  
"No need to come back then." He concludes and that does something to my stomach that I choose to ignore.  
"Off to find another whore in Austria?" I spit, in that kind of anger that threatens to explode. He sits on the edge of the bed then and glares at me.  
"Seems like it." He hisses between clenched teeth and then it clicks.  
He's asked me to come yesterday night, possibly his last night in England. He says he 'might' not come back. What's the condition? How does it concern me? Does he want me to … Does he want me to ask him to stay? No, it can't be. It would sound … Everything this wasn't.  
"Good." I sneer and walk away as fast as I can.  
"FUCK!" He shrieks and I hear him stand and follow me down the corridor. I don't turn around. I can't. I'm almost at the front door when I hear another large thud at my back. He's punched the wall. Again. I stop and turn around slowly. He's made another hole. I can see his hand turning red from where I stand.  
"What the hell is wrong with you?" I ask. Because I don't understand. His stare is livid. I've never seen him this angry before.  
"Fuck you, Granger."  
"You just did." I sneer.  
"FUCK YOU!" He roars.  
"What is wrong with you?"  
"YOU!" He shrieks.  
He stops abruptly and I find myself rooted to the spot.  
"What?" He doesn't answer. "You asked me to come!" I throw in his face.  
"Are you that thick?" He spits.  
"Fuck you." I curse and keep walking to the door, feeling incomprehensible tears swell up under my eyes. Why would I cry? No, I will not cry in front of him.  
"Granger …" His voice is suddenly so weak that I stop, my hand on the doorknob and turn around. He doesn't say anything and just watches me, guarded.  
"WHAT? What do you want from me Malfoy?" He shuts down at that. I can see on his face that I went too far. Or too harsh how should I know? I don't even understand what's going on.  
"Nothing, don't worry." He turns away from me and that's when the words choose to leave my mouth:  
"If that's you're way of asking me to …"  
"To what?" He cuts. "What do you think I'm asking you, Granger?" He barks. His hand is turning purple. The look on his face, I don't understand. It's not anger anymore.  
"I don't know." And it's true and I see hurt flash in his eyes again. This time I'm sure I saw it. He takes a few steps then, and the hurt, it vanishes, venom, hate, take its place. I'm not prepared for what he sneers next, looming over me, his jaw so clenched I can see the muscle roll:  
"Nothing. I'm not asking you anything. Because this, is nothing. This has never been anything. You said so yourself more than once. So fuck off my place already."  
I feel a tear drip down my face and only have time to see his eyes grow wide before I disapparate away.


	4. Chapter 4

I stumble back home and the tears I apparently can't control start to spill. They run down my cheeks and I don't know why. I don't understand why.  
It's just another argument.  
But no, it isn't.  
It's the last one, isn't it?  
We were never able to talk. Just talk.  
We were just able to fuck, in hate, resentment, and anger. To insult each other, tear each other apart, shout and scream.  
It had hurt, for months.  
But every time we've asked for more. Every time I've come back. Every time he's come back.  
Asking for more of this sick, twisted way to feel something. To fill that empty space in my life. To try and forget about everything that always surrounds me, always suffocates me.  
I take a quill and write to Harry that I won't be able to make it, to postpone to another time.  
Then, I take a shower, I wash our night off. I wash his hands off my skin, I wash his smell off my body.  
But the feeling of emptiness that grips me then will stay, I know it.  
And oh, it stays. All day. All night. And the next day too.  
Before I know it's been a week, and I don't know whether he's come back and chosen to forget all about this, or has definitely moved out of the country.  
I know he has nothing to keep him here.  
I think, I kind of hope, a pointless hope, that I was what was keeping him here.  
Why, I don't know. Because it doesn't make any sense. Because he hates me. Because he's only been trying to feel something too.  
He's gone either way. And I'm alone now.  
Alone with my job, my acquaintances, Ron's disapproving stares, Harry's sad ones.  
And I don't want to see any of them any longer, so I decline every invitation, lock myself off the world and work.  
I just work - for an entire month where I don't dare go past his company to see if he's still there, ignoring me, or if he's gone.  
Because either way, it hurts.  
It hurts more than when we used to hurt together.  
It takes me a month to realise or to stop denying, but I miss this. All of it. The shouts, the lashing out, the sex, the pain.  
I miss him.  
It's when something is taken from you that you realise how much it mattered, isn't it?  
Well, he mattered. He's been my escape, my way to lash out and scream, without fear of being rejected. Because whatever he said, whatever I told him, we always came back for more. His door was always open. Mine is still.  
But he doesn't feel the same or is too stubborn to admit it to himself, and we can't speak anyway.  
So I am left alone, and I go back to that bar, for some obscure reason that I won't try to formulate. I am pathetic enough as it is.  
He's never there. He's gone.  
I keep going anyway.  
Blaise Zabini is there once and I have to leave because he provokes me, calls me names from another time, from a war that is far away from us now, but that I can't erase from my mind. It does things to me that frighten me. I don't want to do anything I'll come to regret though, so I go away, but only after tossing the contents of my glass to Zabini's face.  
I won't go back.  
It's been two months now, and sometimes, when I hear a noise in my flat, I find myself jumping up to the front door to see that no one is there.  
It's too much. Too much pain that I am willing to suffer.  
So tonight, after two months, instead of going out, I go to his place.  
I can still apparate inside, the wards are still in place, I'm still allowed in. He didn't change them.  
It gives me a tiny second of hope when I land in his corridor, but as soon as I step into the living, I realise he's really gone.  
A thick layer of dust has settled on the furniture, the chairs are covered with thick white linens. When I frantically run to his study I find it empty but for the desk and the chairs, even the bookshelves have been emptied.  
I can't breathe. I need to calm down and try to draw a breath. It comes in shaky and weak and comes out worse.  
I run to the bedroom. He's taken the sheets, and only the mattress is left.  
I cry. I spend a long moment crying there, pathetically, in his house, alone.  
And then I pick myself up from his cold floor, and I hate him. So much I want to scream. I walk back to the front door, and there, stuck to the wood, is a dusty piece of paper.  
Tell me to stay.   
Well it's too late now, isn't it? He's gone. I'm desperate, miserable. I take the note and apparate back home. Tell me to stay. I didn't. He thought I'd come back that day. Maybe he hoped I'd come back.  
But it took me two months. And now it's too late. I can't bear the sight of his handwriting, so I toss the paper on the floor and apparate away.  
I land in a secluded street in muggle London and walk. Emptily, pointlessly, I walk. I wander in the streets for hours, until I don't know where I am any more. And I keep walking. I stop only when my feet hurt so bad it's distracting me from the other pain. I sit on a bench and watch the Thames. Until the sun goes up.  
Until I'm too tired to apparate back.  
I fall asleep, there, and it's a kid's cry that wakes me up. I walk back home and it takes hours. I climb the stairs slowly, my feet hurt so bad. I open the door, take a step in, and something's off.  
I still have reflexes. My wand is drawn, my senses alert, the wards are untouched.  
But something's off.  
I walk around my small place, and maybe the couch is slightly ruffled, but I never sit there. He used to sit there. But he's not here, the place is empty.  
I come back to the living, and check on the wards again, nothing's amiss.  
Something's off, and it takes me an hour to figure out what.  
The note, the note I took from his door, it's on the coffee table. I threw it on the floor.  
He came. I missed him! He came!  
I wasn't there!  
The wave of rage I feel at that moment makes me break a whole lot of useless things. Picture frames crash to the floor, a vase explodes against the wall, everything that laid forgotten on the kitchen table is thrown around.  
I only stop when there is nothing left to break, my breathing rasping, echoing in the still and poisonous air around me.  
The feeling of emptiness that has been holding me in its clutches since that day is making me sink.  
He came back.  
He did. I wasn't there.  
I cry.  
I scream.  
And then, my brain wakes up.  
He came back.  
How?  
The wards at his place, they must warn him.  
I go back to his place, in a desperate attempt at making him come back. Again.  
I stay a few minutes in his corridor and then come back to my place. I wait.  
I wait for hours.  
He doesn't come back.  
Eventually, I fall asleep, in the mess I made, in tears I don't understand. In despair and anger.


	5. Chapter 5

When I open my eyes, I am on the couch. I rub my face and sit, taking in the mess in front of me. My flat is in ruins. I didn’t realise how many things I broke yesterday. Now, it only makes me want to cry more.   
A page flips and I jump, my wand is drawn.   
He is there, in my armchair. He slowly puts down the book he’s been reading and looks at me. I lower my wand. He is here. He looks haunted. As if he didn’t sleep well for a few days, or not at all.   
He just looks at me and says nothing.   
He doesn’t mention the mess, doesn’t comment on my swollen eyes. He just looks at me, his gaze never leaving my face. He seems to be taking in every detail and I find myself doing the same.   
I follow the white hairline that frames his face, the lonely strand of thin white silk that falls on his forehead, the planes of his thin cheeks, the traces under his stale gaze, the tip of his nose, the sharp edges of his jaw.   
He doesn’t say a thing. I am rooted to the spot. He is here. Back. He came back. And I have nothing to say. I can’t move, he doesn’t look angry.   
My mouth is suddenly dry but I force it open. He beats me to it though, and lifts the note he’s been holding in his hand. I gulp the dryness.   
“What do you want?” I ask.   
He takes in a deep breath, his eyes closing for a short second. He looks so tired like that.   
“Tell me to stay.” His voice is small, and his eyes open but he doesn’t look at me anymore, he looks at the note he’s left two months ago. I don’t find it in me to tell him just that. I am so tired of hurting.  
“What do you want?” I ask again. He looks at me now, and he pinches his lips. He’s not angry though. I don’t recognise the expression on his face for I have only seen nothing or anger on it for months. He stands then, and in a second is in front of me. He doesn’t touch me, he leaves space between us.   
“I stayed because of you.” He says and then turns his back on me and walks to the door. I only find my voice when he opens it.   
“Stay.” He doesn’t turn around right away, but when he does, I am already crying. His eyes are red.   
“I’m gone now.”   
I knew it was too late. But why did he come back then? I am crying the more but through my pain, grows anger and I find my voice harsh when I speak:  
“Then fuck off and don’t come back here!” His eyes widen but he isn’t angry. I don’t understand his expression again and atop the anger, the pain, comes frustration.   
“I told you to stay. I did what you asked! What the fuck do you want from me? Why the fuck are you even here?” He takes a step forward. “Answer me!” I shriek and he takes another step forward. He is in front of me now. He avoids my eyes.   
“I can’t stay now. It’s too late.” The words seem to hurt him. I want to punch him. I want to hit him, shake him, scream at him, but I do none. I just stand there, crying and his eyes are finally on me.   
“Why are you here, then?”  
“Because of you.”   
“What do you want from me? Answer me.” My voice is pleading and I hate myself for it.   
“Come with me.” I’m not sure I heard right, his eyes are on a point around my waist. His voice has been so quiet. I don’t find any words to say for a long moment during which he seems to slump down.   
“To Austria?” I eventually ask, not daring to hope, not even daring to believe. He just nods, the sudden fear in his eyes I don’t understand.   
“I can’t leave …” I start and he cuts me:   
“Who? What? This place? I stayed because of you. Why do you stay, Granger?” He looks desperate and I don’t have an answer. I don’t know why. I have nothing to keep me here.   
“Come with me.” This time he is almost begging. And I nod. He exhales a shaky breath and steps closer. He doesn’t touch me. He seems afraid to do so. I don’t know if I can. I want to. I forgot how it felt. I don’t, instead, I ask:  
“When?”  
“Now.”   
I nod again. The tip of my fingers throb to touch him, but I have lost the nerves. We stay still another moment, not looking at each other, and then I realise what I just accepted to do.   
I will go with him. He stayed for me. Until he couldn’t bear with it any longer, until he thought I didn’t care. He cared. He hoped.   
I did too. Deep down I knew all along that this mattered. I repeatedly told him it didn’t. He still came back as soon as I showed a sign. He’s been waiting. For me.   
I abruptly lift my face to him and when I do, his hands find my cheeks.   
“Now?” He’s pleading.   
I nod and feel my cheeks lift just a bit. I see him smile for the first time. A small smile, that looks painful from the lack of practice but that reaches his eyes. And it’s beautiful.   
He doesn’t kiss me but pulls me in his arms. I wrap mine around him and he holds on tightly. I feel his breath in my hair and he inhales deeply. I do the same and recognise the scent of his cologne, and the stale scent of cold sweat. His arms are trembling.   
I hold on tighter.   
“I’ve missed you.” Quietly leaves my mouth and we both stiffen. He withdraws after a moment and looks down at me.   
“Pathetic.” He murmurs. I don’t see any of the vicious vehemence I usually saw on his face before.   
“Fuck you,” I answer, equally softly.   
He chuckles and brings me back closer in his embrace, putting his lips on my forehead this time. He talks against my skin:  
“I’ve missed you too.”


End file.
